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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518435">Take My Pain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_trust_a_cat_that_smiles/pseuds/never_trust_a_cat_that_smiles'>never_trust_a_cat_that_smiles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesiac Sam Winchester, DeanCas - Freeform, Demon Deals, Demonic Possession, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:02:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_trust_a_cat_that_smiles/pseuds/never_trust_a_cat_that_smiles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His life was over. Perhaps not physically, but Dean knew better.<br/>With the blade that had taken Sam's life at the hands of the yellow-eyed demon's "winner," he had felt his own heart stop and stutter out. He does the only thing he knows to do: sacrifice himself at the crossroads.<br/>But what happens when the Sam he brings back is not the Sam he remembers?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Where the Deals are Done</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He saw him through the rain. He saw him through the fog, through the dirt, through the blood, through the pain. He saw him through the memories. Saw him as a baby in his arms, the flames leaping behind him. Saw him as a bleary-eyed boy, watching the clock and the door, waiting for Dad to come home from a Hunt. Saw him as a studious college kid, an aspiring lawyer, a devoted boyfriend.</p>
<p>He saw him coming home, the fury alight in his eyes, the nightmares burned into his dreams, the guilt buried in his soul. He saw him return to the Hunt.</p>
<p>And over and over, he saw him die.</p>
<p>In the dark, he shut his eyes. But he couldn’t block out what his mind refused to allow him to forget.</p>
<p>He took one final, lingering look at his brother’s body laid out on the mattress before he slammed the door and drove off into the night.</p>
<p>The Impala, her engine smooth and reliable as ever, bumped over the dust and the backroads until she reached the point in the path he had been waiting for: the crossroads. He slipped a tiny photograph of himself into a matchbook—since when did he start carrying a picture like that?—and buried it in the dirt at the center of the cross.</p>
<p>He stood slowly.</p>
<p>“I’ve been waiting for you, Dean Winchester,” the demon whispered. He whirled. </p>
<p>Once more, it had taken the form of a young woman—this one blonde, green-eyed, tall and lithe and curved in all the right places. <em> Demons, </em> he thought now and a thousand times before, <em> know exactly how to choose their victims. </em></p>
<p>He tried to summon a cocky greeting; <em> rot in hell, bitch </em> would have been ideal. But he couldn’t do it. His throat was dry as his eyes were wet.</p>
<p>“Oh? What’s this?” She circled him slowly. He faced forward, jaw tense. <em> Stare straight ahead. For Sammy. For Sam. </em> “No snide remarks? No death threats?”</p>
<p>“I’ve come to make a deal,” he said quietly.</p>
<p>“Hm. I figured.” She sashayed around him, hips swinging closer, brow raised. “But still. I had thought, of all people, <em> you </em> would come in with the axe swinging. Strange how you’re so much more careful now that you’ve lost everything.”</p>
<p>“You know what I want. Let’s get this over with.”</p>
<p>Her lip puckered in a pout. “But this is so <em> fun, </em> Dean. Watching you squirm. I must say, you really do have that kicked-puppy look about you. All that bluster… but take away Sammy and what’s left? Just Dean. Poor, sad, lost little Dean. Empty. <em> Alone.” </em></p>
<p>“Do we have a deal or <em> not,” </em> Dean hissed. “Bring back Sam, and you come for me in ten years.”</p>
<p>The demon threw her—no, <em> its— </em>head back and laughed. A high, grating sound. Like nails on a chalkboard. Like a scream out of hell. “That’s not exactly a tempting proposition, Dean.”</p>
<p>“It’s the same deal you’ve dealt a thousand and more times, devil.”</p>
<p><em> “Demon,” </em>it corrected. It stretched out a feminine hand, nails long and polished and bloodred. Reached out and stroked his cheek. He tensed against the touch. “But you’re different from a thousand and more others.”</p>
<p>“Forgive me if I’m not flattered,” he murmured, doing his best not to move.</p>
<p>“Forgiveness was never my strong suit,” it purred. The hand inched up along his jaw line, tucked into his hair. Its skin, stolen and robbed of its once-human form, was cold to the touch. “Make me a better offer.”</p>
<p>“Nine years.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Eight.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Sev—”</p>
<p>“Must we play at this game forever, Dean? It’s not enough. It will never be enough. Your father knew that. He sold his soul for you and what did he get? Not five minutes.”</p>
<p>Dean froze, its words simultaneously like ice and fire roaring through his veins. “Five years or no deal.”</p>
<p>She—<em> NO. IT, </em>his mind screamed—leaned forward. Its breath teased at his cheek, his lips, and then with a brilliant red blink pulled away. “No deal.”</p>
<p>He watched the demon turn from him, take two steps, and then the world halted.</p>
<p>He saw the soldier by the name of Jake sweep the knife from the ground and plunge it into Sam’s back. Saw his wide eyes, heard his agonized cry, felt his blood seep thickly through Dean’s interlocked fingers. The knife twisted; there was a crack of bone; Sam staggered to his knees and from his lips escaped the faintest gasping moan.</p>
<p>Dean saw himself knee-slide to his fallen brother in time to catch his body as it toppled, as his eyelids fluttered, as his head lolled limply forward and then was still.</p>
<p><em> “Sam!” </em> he heard himself scream, and that’s when the memories unleashed and he spun about to face the demon at the crossroads. “Wait!”</p>
<p>It turned back, feminine back arched in a seductive posture, and grinned. “Yes?”</p>
<p>Dean swallowed. His tongue felt like sandpaper.</p>
<p>“Please.”</p>
<p>The demon stalked toward him, mouth stretched wide. The crimson lipstick offered a stark contrast to pale skin, lending the illusion of a bloodied grin.</p>
<p>Perhaps that was intentional.</p>
<p>“Since you asked so nicely,” it murmured, breath hot on his neck. “One year, Winchester. Just the one.”</p>
<p>“Deal,” he croaked. In that moment he could have sworn its eyes alighted with a spark beyond the usual menace. </p>
<p>It lunged forward, wrapped long inhuman arms about his neck, and kissed him with a passion bordering ferocity.</p>
<p><em> For Sam, </em> he thought once more, and the demon sealed the deal.</p>
<p>When it was over, Dean pulled away, gasping. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the seam of his leather jacket catching on the corner of his lip and tugging at the soft skin. He didn’t care. He wanted that taste out of his mouth.</p>
<p>“See you in hell, bitch,” he growled.</p>
<p>“Oh no,” it whispered, eyes red and fiery, “you’ll have to catch me first, darling.”</p>
<p>He blinked and the demon was gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>He bolted upright, sweat pouring from his forehead in rivulets. Eyes wide, hands shaking, breath coming in fast gulps. He forced himself to calm down, to take in his surroundings. In the dimness, faint shadowy outlines emerged. A dilapidated nightstand. A broken-down dresser. A dusty, torn upholstered chair.</p>
<p>He took it all in in two blinks and a quick shake of his head.</p>
<p>“This… isn’t Stanford,” he whispered.</p>
<p>He leaned back and stared up at the crumbling ceiling and wondered how the structure hadn’t caved in yet. This room—if it could be called a room, really, since it barely held four walls together and didn’t block the night’s chill one bit—appeared as if it had lain dormant for the past twenty years. The faint odor of rot drifting through the open door didn’t help to lighten the atmosphere, either.</p>
<p>“Where am I,” he mumbled.</p>
<p>“So. Sleeping Beauty awakes, does he?” A voice at the door caused his head to snap to the left; he winced and rubbed at his neck. Great. Just add whiplash to the mix. The voice moved forward out of the dimness. “Whoa, now. Cool your jets.” A hand pushed him back down onto the mattress. “You took quite the hit, Sammy. Just—”</p>
<p>His brow raised. “Sammy? Oh God, you’ve got to be kidding me.”</p>
<p>Dean grinned. “Glad to see you haven’t changed a bit.”</p>
<p>“What?” Sam sat up, groaning. His back hurt like hell—no, literally, it felt as if the devil himself had taken a hot poker to his spine and jabbed as hard as he could. He rubbed at the sore skin and blinked up at Dean. “Just don’t… don’t call me that.”</p>
<p>“Sure thing, Sammy.”</p>
<p>His lip twisted in disgust. “What a jerk,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“Bitch,” the other replied. He flopped down beside him, that easy, careless smirk ever-present. <em> Like a bad penny, </em>Sam thought vaguely.</p>
<p>“Did you just… did you just call me a bitch?”</p>
<p>The two looked at each other in bewildered silence. Then Dean coughed.</p>
<p>“Déjà-fucking-vu,” he muttered. “Look, man, you should eat something. You’ve been… out… for a while now. You must be starving, huh?” He reached out to help Sam up, but he shrugged away.</p>
<p>“Look,<em> man,” </em> Sam began, borrowing Dean’s tone and layering it with a deep sarcasm that to his brother was so achingly, annoyingly familiar, “I don’t know where the hell I am. I don’t know why the hell it feels like my entire body woke up with a raging hangover, I don’t know who the hell you are, and for the life of me I don’t know what the hell is going on.”</p>
<p>Dean stared. “Sam, I—”</p>
<p>“And that’s another thing! Why in <em> hell </em> do you keep calling me <em> Sam?” </em></p>
<p>“Because that’s your name,” Dean said dumbly. “Geez, Sammy, one heart attack a day is enough for me. Would you stop acting all weird?”</p>
<p>His brother served up the classic bitch-face glare: narrowed eyes, scrunched brow, doubting frown. “Weird,” Sam repeated. “I’m sorry, <em> who </em> are you?”</p>
<p>“Fucking hilarious,” Dean grumbled. He grabbed Sam’s arm and hoisted him to his feet, automatically reaching behind him to support his back. He winced at the feel of dried blood on Sam’s jacket and was just opening his mouth when Sam wrenched away from him. He stumbled back, nearly falling into the crumbling upholstery, and doubled over with a groan.</p>
<p>Dean was at his side in a moment, concern alight in his expression. “Whoa, rest easy, Sam—”</p>
<p>Sam swatted his hand away, holding back a grimace of pain. “Would you stop calling me that?” he hissed between gritted teeth.</p>
<p>Dean stared at him. “Sure,” he said, though his tone was doubtful. “What do you want to be called, Princess?”</p>
<p>A dagger-like glare was thrown his way. “For starters, my name would be appreciated.”</p>
<p>Dean resisted the urge to remind him that this was, in fact, exactly what he had been doing all along. “And that is?”</p>
<p>Sam gave him his other classic glare: the <em> you’re-a-dumbass-and-there’s-no- hope-for-you </em>look. “It’s—” he began, and then another look crept across his face.</p>
<p>Dean saw it coming a mile away; he knew with almost complete certainty what that look would mean before the thought even fully registered in Sam’s brain. A leaden dread dropped like a stone into his stomach. He saw the realization sink in, a slow, steady horror stealing across his brother’s face.</p>
<p>Then Sam collapsed into the chair. “Oh God,” he whispered, his hands raking through his hair, “I don’t know. I don’t… I don’t know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“What do you mean you don’t know?”</p>
<p>“I mean I don’t know—!” Sam cut off suddenly, on the brink of saying something else… but it was as if he couldn’t remember what it was he wanted to say. He looked at Dean expectantly, almost pleadingly.</p>
<p>“Dean.” He sighed. “My name is Dean.”</p>
<p>“I mean,” Sam tried again, slower this time, “I don’t know who I <em> am, </em> Dean.” </p>
<p>His heart sunk, at that. “What are you trying to tell me, that you’ve got some kind of high-grade amnesia?”</p>
<p>“I… I guess so?”</p>
<p>“What’s the last thing you remember, Sammy?”</p>
<p>The other’s brow flickered in annoyance, but then he bent with a furrowed frown. “Stanford,” he managed finally. “I’m a senior at Stanford.”</p>
<p>“You <em> were </em> a senior at Stanford. That was two years ago.”</p>
<p>He jolted upright. “What?” Then his expression twisted. “No. This has got to be some kind of joke. I’ve never seen you before in my life.” Sam peered around at his dim surroundings; when he faced Dean once more, his glare was cold. “What do you want from me, huh? Money?”</p>
<p>“Sam, calm down—”</p>
<p>“Calm down? Are you kidding?” He shoved to his feet. “For all I know you’re some sick freak holding me hostage. Where even <em> are </em>we?”</p>
<p>“Cold Oak, South Dakota.”</p>
<p>“Right, sure,” Sam scoffed. “How did I get here?”</p>
<p>“You were kidnapped,” Dean explained, doing his best to maintain at least a facade of patience but failing miserably. Sam’s eyes narrowed as if to say, <em> Obviously, </em> and Dean continued: “By a demon.”</p>
<p>Sam’s jaw dropped open.</p>
<p>
  <em> So not only is he a sick freak, he’s an insane one to boot. Great. Perfect. </em>
</p>
<p>“That’s impossible.”</p>
<p>“Our <em> lives </em> are impossible, Sammy. You <em> know </em> this.”</p>
<p>“No. No.” He backed up slowly, eyes wide. <em> “No. </em> Just tell me what it is you want, and then we can both be on our way.”</p>
<p>“That’s not how this works.”</p>
<p>He stood like a rabbit caught in a trap, his stance uneven and his shoulders slightly hunched. Dean had seen that look before, countless times. The look of false surrender.</p>
<p>The look right before he was about to spring.</p>
<p>Dean held up his hands. “Sam. I’m not going to hurt you.” The words were painful to even think about, much more so to say. “Hell, Sam, it’s been my job since day one to protect you.”</p>
<p>“What—what are you talking about?”</p>
<p>He couldn’t help it; his guard slipped. His shoulders sagged in defeat. “I’m your brother, Sam.” The words caught in his throat. “Do you really not remember me?”</p>
<p>Silence.</p>
<p>Sam’s eyes darted; Dean blinked. In that split second, a glint of light appeared clutched in his brother’s fist: a glint that hadn’t been there before.</p>
<p>“Put the knife down.”</p>
<p>A muscle ticked in Sam’s jaw. “No.”</p>
<p>“Sam—”</p>
<p>“Don’t call me that,” he growled.</p>
<p>And then, impossibly, his brother was trying to kill him.</p>
<p>Dean wrapped a hand about Sam’s wrist and twisted; his hold on the knife loosened, and as Dean pushed back it went clattering to the floor.</p>
<p>Sam landed a kick to his groin, but as he went down Dean snatched his legs. They tumbled to the ground, both leaping up immediately.</p>
<p>But Dean was faster. He was on his knees and bent over before Sam had sat up fully, and the last thing his little brother saw before the dark was Dean’s fist. His hit crashed against Sam’s temple. He fell back and slammed his head against the rotting wall.</p>
<p>Dean sat back on his heels and scrubbed the blood from his face. After a pregnant silence, broken only by the taunting voice of memory in his mind</p>
<p>
  <em> (it was your job to protect him, Dean) </em>
</p>
<p>he stumbled to his feet. The door swung open crookedly at his touch. The Impala’s trunk waited for him; he grabbed a coil of rope and made his way back to the abandoned shack, his gait more like that of a hobbled old man than of a young one two years shy of his third decade.</p>
<p>He stared at Sam’s unconscious form for a moment. In this light, at this angle, with his head bent back and his brow furrowed in troubled restlessness, he vaguely resembled the Sam of an hour ago: cold, pale, lifeless. Then he groaned, and the image shattered.</p>
<p>Instead of the ghost of his brother, Dean saw only his shell. </p>
<p>He wrapped the rope about Sam’s wrists and looped his arms around a support beam. He secured the knot with a firm tug.</p>
<p>Before he left, he cast one last glance at Sam’s silent face. That picture could almost convince him that Sam was just as he had always been. With that last nostalgic snapshot filed away in the recesses of his mind, Dean turned for the door.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he whispered hoarsely.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Though she was a 1967 model, the Impala roared like a black devil hellbent on destruction.</p>
<p>Which, ironically, Dean could relate to.</p>
<p>He swiped the steering wheel to the right, sending up skidding sheets of gravel and dirt into the dusty air at the crossroads. He sprang from the driver’s side, his twitching fingers straying to the pistol tucked into his waistband.</p>
<p>“What did you do, you bitch?” Dean shouted.</p>
<p>The laughter floated like a stale breeze toward him. “Oh, you know. The usual. Played devil’s advocate, sealed a few deals. Wrote the fine print.” It had taken another form—this woman somehow more beautiful than the last. “Oh. And raised your brother from the dead. Almost forgot about that one.”</p>
<p>“Whatever you brought back, that’s not my brother,” he hissed.</p>
<p>“Oh, but isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“That’s not Sam.”</p>
<p>“But it <em> is </em> Sammy, Dean,” she clucked, stepping closer and tapping the underside of his chin. “I brought him back for you. Young and innocent and brand-new.” It smiled, pulled back those bright red lips from a perfect set of pearly-white, razor-edged teeth. The sheer flawlessness of its appearance made it all the more revolting. “Remember how you always wanted him to have a normal childhood?”</p>
<p>“Whatdidyoudoyoufuckingbitch—”</p>
<p>“Temper, temper,” the demon simpered. “I simply gave you what you wanted for him all along.”</p>
<p>“You erased him.”</p>
<p>“I erased only the parts of him you wished he never had.”</p>
<p>“You took his memory!”</p>
<p>“I took his <em> pain,” </em> it corrected with a self-righteous toss of its beautiful red mane. Dean barely managed to restrain the urge to seize those locks and yank until the demon’s neck snapped. “I gave you what you wanted all along. Your brother as he should have been.”</p>
<p>“Where. Is. Sam,” he screamed.</p>
<p>“Where you left him.” It tapped long red nails against one arm; disturbingly, he heard a clicking sound when nail hit skin.</p>
<p>“No.” Dean clenched his jaw so tight he heard a crack; he was sure his teeth would grind into dust on impact and leave him with nothing but the rotting fury of his own hatred. “What did you do with my brother?”</p>
<p>“Oh,” it said innocently. “<em> That </em> Sam.” Again, it smiled. That wide, flawless, almost peaceful smile. “ <em> Oh. </em> He’s dead, Dean.” It leaned forward once more, seizing advantage of his paralysis, and rested a cold, lifeless forehead against his cheek. “And you couldn’t protect him.”</p>
<p>He had heard those words a thousand times in his mind, his own self-accusations again and again and again. But now he heard them in another voice.</p>
<p>
  <em> You didn’t protect him, Dean. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Dad, please... </em>
</p>
<p>“He doesn’t know me,” he whispered now, his voice hoarse. “What else doesn’t he…” Dean glanced up. “Our parents?”</p>
<p>“Alive, as far as Sam 2.0 is concerned. I’ll let you open that can of worms.” He blinked, stunned, before there was even time to process what the demon said next. “There is no <em> ‘our’ </em> about it, Dean. The boy remembers growing up as normal. Which means no nursery fire. No early-childhood Hunts. No ghosts, no monsters, no survival tactics. And no <em> you, </em> Dean.”</p>
<p>His mouth worked without sound, hitching on the words as they choked in his throat.</p>
<p>“You wanted him to be happy, didn’t you?” That smile. <em> That fucking smile. </em> “Now he is happy.”</p>
<p>He saw Jake’s blade dipped in Sam’s blood, he saw it in the demon’s hand, he saw it plunge into his own back and twist where the heart had been. Then the image vanished from his mind—but the pain? That stayed. As he knew it always would.</p>
<p>“He’s happy,” the demon murmured again.</p>
<p>“What am I supposed to do, teach him his own memories?” Dean choked out. “Make him relive everything?”</p>
<p>Red eyes flashed back at him. “I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. That choice is yours.” He clenched his jaw and turned away, but its words followed him, floated past him in an endless spiral. “But remember this, Dean Winchester. <em> This </em> is what you wished for.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Where the Memories Begin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So what happens now?”</p><p>His back to the doorway, Dean winced. Whatever lay in the next room was wearing his brother’s face, using his voice, taking advantage of his mannerisms and his tones and his smart-ass nature that used to drive Dean insane.</p><p>Now he wished Sam would crack that smile of his and tell him it was all some sort of experimental prank. He could have his laughs, fine. If only it was Sam. It <em> had </em> to be Sam.</p><p>But the truth of it was… whatever lay in the next room, Dean had no idea whether it was his brother or not.</p><p>“Now we sit here and learn how to play nice,” he said, whirling about in what he tried to pass off as a devil-may-care attitude. He winced internally at that particular thought, though.</p><p>Sam sat across from him, upright against the support beam, his wrists behind him and his eyes ablaze with all the glaring, righteously-defiant fury of a hobbled lion.</p><p>“Can’t play nicely or otherwise as it is,” he spat. His brow flickered; he twisted his head and yanked at the bonds behind his back. The beam trembled as dust rained from the ceiling, but it held.</p><p>“Hm. Guess you’ll have to sit there and look pretty, then.” Dean flung his pack down and crossed his arms tightly. “How you doin’, Sammy?”</p><p>His brother’s lip twisted. “You’re a psychopath.”</p><p>“Learned it from you,” Dean replied. He sat, kicked his feet up on the torn mattress, and cast his wary gaze Sam’s way. “And you learned it from Dad. It’s genetics, Sam.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“What, they didn’t teach you about all that at Stanford?”</p><p>“No.” A muscle feathered in Sam’s jaw, tight and then loose and then tight again. “They taught me—”</p><p>“Law.” Dean’s voice cut like a knife through the dark. “I know.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Sam’s laugh was dry. Cold. Empty. “What else do you know about me, oh-stalker-of-mine?”</p><p>“I’m your big brother. There’s a difference. Slight, but still a difference.”</p><p>“You must find yourself amusing.”</p><p>“I think I’m hilarious,” Dean deadpanned. “But that’s beside the point.” He leaned forward, sighed. “The point is, Sammy, your brain’s been wiped. And it’s my fault.” He clenched his jaw. Looked away. He could feel Sam’s burning gaze on the side of his head; he didn’t dare turn. “So I’m going to fix it.”</p><p>The skepticism in the air was so thick Dean could smell it. “And how do you plan to do that?”</p><p>“I’m going to remind you who you are.”</p><p>The silence was palpable.</p><p>“Oh now don’t get so excited, Sammy, you might pull something,” Dean growled.</p><p>“What do you want me to do, Dean? Sing Kumbaya? The Hallelujah Chorus? You’re not exactly my <em> savior.” </em></p><p>Dean smiled grimly. When he spoke, his voice had lost its usual harshness. “I know.”</p><p>When he looked up again, Sam’s gaze had strayed to the side, his jaw tense. A shadow fell across the side of his face, deepening beneath his eyes.</p><p>“So what happens now?” he asked quietly. “Going to kill me?”</p><p>Dean blinked. Sam’s expression never changed. There was no denying it; he had the look of a man on death row... not one who had just been rescued from the grave.</p><p>“Are you crazy? <em> Kill </em> you?”</p><p>“What else am I supposed to think? You kidnapped me and tied me to a damn pole.”</p><p>“You asked for that. You tried to stab me.”</p><p>Sam’s trademark exasperated look was the only response.</p><p>“Fine.” Dean rose and squatted behind the pole. He flicked his switchblade into his palm. He started fiddling with the ropes around Sam’s wrists. “As a show of good faith, then.”</p><p>“What, you’re letting me go?”</p><p>“What does it look like, dumbass,” Dean muttered. He sliced through the cords and took a step back as Sam scrambled to his feet.</p><p>“Just like that?” He rubbed at his wrists, his expression dubious.</p><p>“Just like that.” Dean watched him back up, watched him glance at the door, watched as his feet shifted just slightly to angle for the closest exit should Dean so much as lift a finger to stop him. “Go on. Go ahead. But you pull that knife on me again...”</p><p>He didn’t need to finish the threat. Sam was backing up, peering around doubtfully. “Why are you doing this?”</p><p>“I’m your brother, not your warden,” Dean retorted. The words stung—even though they were his. “You want to leave, fine. I won’t stop you. I couldn’t before.”</p><p>Sam blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Look, are you gonna sit here and <em> talk </em>, Sammy, or are you get up and walk out that door like you’ve been wanting to for the past two hours?”</p><p>He seemed taken aback, eyes wide, jaw slack. Then, finally: “Who <em> are </em> you?”</p><p>“Dean Winchester. First-class hunter and handsome as the devil.” Sam’s piercing face never wavered. Dean sighed. “You’re breakin’ my fucking heart, Sammy. I’m your <em> brother.” </em></p><p>“So that makes me—“</p><p>“Sam Winchester. Born May 2, 1983. You’re 6’4”, you weigh two hundred twenty pounds, you have a bitch of a personality, and I swear if you don’t wipe that idiot look off your face I’ll do it for you. Understood?”</p><p>Now Sam paired his exasperated look with his exasperated scoff: a half-choked noise torn between a laugh and a cough, sounding vaguely like <em> eckk. </em>“No. No, I don’t understand. Why don’t I remember anything?”</p><p>Dean opened his mouth. Shut it. Repeated the motion.</p><p>“What?” Sam demanded.</p><p>“You wouldn’t believe me.”</p><p>His glare turned stony. “I swear to God, if the next thing out of your mouth is some ‘Jason Bourne’ bullcrap, I’m going to kill you.”</p><p>Dean looked at him blankly; Sam’s expression was incredulous.</p><p>“Are you kidding? You don’t know Jason Bourne?”</p><p>Dean shrugged. “That was always your thing. I know cars. You know everything else.”</p><p>“Except for who I am, apparently.” Sam squinted. “And... you said this was your doing?”</p><p>Dean saw no point in denying it. He had made the deal at the crossroads, after all. Heaven and hell knew he would have to pay for what he had done, sooner or later.</p><p>
  <em> One year, Winchester. Just the one. </em>
</p><p>He nodded, jaw tight.</p><p>“Then do me the damn favor and tell me what the hell is going on.”</p><p>“Ironically,” Dean sighed, meeting Sam’s fiery glare, “hell is the perfect place to start.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He hardly had the time to react to that statement when the space behind his eyes sparked fire. Sam doubled over, groaned. A needling sensation—like the tip of a knife—stabbed white-hot into his brain.</p><p>“Sam!”</p><p>The shout registered vaguely, dully, before the earth was ripped from under his feet.</p><p>He was falling, drowning, his mind spinning in an endless swirl of images and sounds and layered beneath it all, one all-consuming odor: sulphur.</p><p>He didn’t have time to wonder how he might know that smell, but there was something about it. An intimateness that he had never known before. The sharpness in his head moved too fast—a mimeograph of pain etched behind his eyes. Scratches of faces. Whispers of names. Brilliant flashes of fire.</p><p>A heavy, shattering crash.</p><p>And then it was over. Just like that, the pain, the images, the sulphur. Gone.</p><p>He had sunk to his knees, bashing his kneecap against the edge of the table on the way down. It ached heavily as Sam staggered to his feet. One hand stretched out blindly and groped about until it hit something warm—the hand of his alleged brother.</p><p>“Dean,” he gasped, “move.”</p><p>A strong arm hauled him upright. Dean’s voice was fraught with a rough mixture of concern and slightly ill-tempered patience and… was that <em> compassion? </em> That didn’t sound right; though exactly <em> why </em> he felt that way, Sam didn’t know.</p><p>But there were more pressing matters to attend to. He coughed. “Dean. Move.”</p><p>“Hold up. Are you—”</p><p>
  <em> “Dean.” </em>
</p><p>“I heard you the first time,” Dean snapped. “Now tell me you’re okay!”</p><p>A cacophony of sound rained down just then, harsh and sharp like the crack of a whip, and Dean had just turned wide eyes above when Sam threw his weight forward and propelled them both to the other side of the dingy room. A splintered crossbeam, smoking and catching fire with an ever-increasing rapidity, shuddered to the panels at their feet.</p><p>“I said,” Sam said, panting, <em> “‘move.’” </em> </p><p>Without a sound, his brother grabbed his arm and yanked him out the door and away from the smoldering wreckage. </p><p><em> Déjà vu, </em> Sam thought. But why… he had no idea.</p><p>He could feel Dean’s intense eyes on the side of his face, but he pretended not to notice. He winced instead, holding a hand to his back. Oddly, he felt as if he’d been stabbed back there; besides the throbbing pain, the skin felt raw and stretched and broken in places it shouldn’t have been.</p><p>But that was impossible.</p><p>“Speaking of déjà vu,” he muttered now, if only to distract himself from this newest development, “what the hell just happened?” He stared forward, watching the flames dance and the shack go up in smoke.</p><p>“You knew. You saw it coming,” Dean said. His voice was low, rough, almost awed. Awed not in a reverent way, Sam noticed. More frightened than anything.</p><p>“What? <em> How?” </em></p><p>“You have… visions,” Dean said delicately. “You see things. Before they happen.”</p><p>
  <em> But that’s impossible. </em>
</p><p>Dean smiled grimly, as if having read the thoughts as they flickered over Sam’s troubled brow. Sam watched him open his mouth, and before he even knew what he was doing, he opened his, too.</p><p>“Déjà-fucking-vu,” they said in unison. Dean looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before shoving to his feet. A distinct beeping sound emitted from his back pocket, and as Sam watched, he removed a thick remote with flashing red sensors across the top.</p><p>“Stay close, Sam.”</p><p>“What is—”</p><p>“EMF meter. Measures an electromagnetic—”</p><p>“I know what EMF means, Dean. Why do you <em> have </em> it?”</p><p>“I forgot how much I missed you asking questions,” Dean muttered. He started at a brisk pace away from the shack’s remains, and for the first time, Sam was allowed a full look at his surroundings. </p><p>“Where did you say we were?”</p><p>“Cold Oak, South Dakota.”</p><p>“Cold Oak,” he repeated. The name rang a bell… or did he just think that because of the iron bell with the oak engraved on it? He could see that just across the way... and it, too, seemed familiar. Everything else—the stores, the houses, the roads—was completely deserted. “The ghost town?”</p><p>Dean whirled around. He was silent for a moment, just staring at him, his expression an enigma. Sam shifted slightly.</p><p>“Exactly,” Dean said finally. Then he turned and popped the trunk of his Chevy. He began fiddling around inside, and Sam, his interest piqued, stepped closer.</p><p>Row after row of rifles, knives, machetes, gasoline jugs, and containers of salt lay inside, propped up or held tight with leather straps. Dean moved among them fluidly, grabbing a rifle, rounds, salt, and a lighter. Sam watched with wide eyes as he removed a knife and a pistol and tossed the latter to Sam.</p><p>“You’ll need that,” Dean said without batting an eye. “Don’t make me regret it, okay?”</p><p>“Oh God,” Sam whispered, staring at the gun in his hands. “This just keeps getting more and more like Jason Bourne.”</p><p>Dean grunted but otherwise didn’t respond.</p><p>“What are we, assassins or something?”</p><p>“Yes and no.” Dean slammed the trunk and patted the fender. “There ya go, Baby. We’ll be back.” He set off at a furious pace, the EMF screaming in his pocket, and Sam found himself hard-pressed to catch up.</p><p>“What do you mean by—”</p><p>“Sammy. Why don’t you shut up and let me do the talking.” They fell into an even rhythm, Sam just slightly ahead due to his height though Dean was leading. “It’s… a long story. But the gist of it is… well. We’re hunters.”</p><p>Sam glanced back at the Impala, the long blade of the machete a fresh image in his mind. “Right. Sure. As if a handgun and a knife would do much against a bear.”</p><p>“Not that kind of hunter,” Dean sighed. He glanced sidelong at his brother, concern worrying at his brow. He had never been the one to smooth things over with people; that had been Sam. He had never been able to comfort someone as they navigated the impossible; that had been Sam.</p><p>And now here Sam was, resurrected, large as life and ignorant as a newborn child.</p><p>Dean opted for the blunt route.</p><p>“We hunt the supernatural.”</p><p>Of all things, he hadn’t expected Sam’s laugh. It was his old laugh, the one Dean remembered from before Jessica had been killed, from those few times when he and his brother and their father had gotten along, from the prank wars they used to pull on each other as kids.</p><p>“Look, man, I thought you were out of it before,” Sam started as Dean stared in disbelief, “but now I <em> know </em> you’re batshit crazy.”</p><p>“It’s true.”</p><p>“Yeah, and I supposed we’ve shaken hands with the devil himself, too.”</p><p>Dean winced. “I wouldn’t joke about that if I were you.”</p><p>The laughter abruptly halted. “Oh God,” Sam said. His eyes were round, wide, somewhat bloodshot. Dean kicked himself for not noticing earlier. Regardless of what was even now, at this moment, hunting <em> them, </em> his first thought should have been of taking care of his brother. Sam had just <em> died, </em> for the love of God, and here Dean was, prancing through a ghost town and dragging him behind like a lost puppy. “Oh God. You’re serious.”</p><p>“Bet your ass I’m serious.”</p><p>“What, you’re talking like ghosts and stuff?”</p><p>“Yeah. Werewolves. Demons. If we’re lucky we come across a vampire every once in a while.”</p><p>
  <em> “What?” </em>
</p><p>Under other circumstances, Dean might have found the situation hilarious: his brother, <em> the </em> Sam Winchester, the one the yellow-eyed demon had been hunting down since birth, the one who had been chasing down said demon for years now, had no idea that the supernatural was real and among the mortals of this world.</p><p>But Dean didn’t find that funny. </p><p>Especially not when the dormant streetlamps lining the road had flickered to stuttering life. Behind them, the Impala’s radio blared.</p><p>
  <em> Carry on, my wayward son… </em>
</p><p>“Dude. Didn’t you turn the car off?”</p><p>Dean didn’t look at him, instead turning in a slow circle. “Stay close, Sam,” he said again. He tightened his grip on the rifle.</p><p>“Excuse me?” a small voice piped up. The brothers whirled. In the road stood a small girl, her bright blonde hair in pigtails and chubby fingers clutched around a tiny stuffed bear. “Excuse me, please? Can you help me find my parents?”</p><p>
  <em> There’ll be peace when you are done... </em>
</p><p>Sam’s expression switched abruptly. “Where did you come from? Are you alright?”</p><p>Dean lunged for him. “Sam, no—”</p><p>
  <em> Lay your weary head to rest… </em>
</p><p>The girl shook her head, pigtails flying. Tears left grimy streaks down her cheeks as she peered up at Sam and reached for him. She seemed to waver in and out of focus, like an old movie.</p><p>But that must have been a trick of the light.</p><p>“No, I’m not, I’m scared…”</p><p>Dean was running for them, but Sam had already taken the girl’s hand.</p><p>
  <em> Don’t you cry no more. </em>
</p><p>The girl’s frown morphed, stretching wide into an animalistic grin.</p><p>“Hi, Sam,” she whispered, and the world lit up in a brilliant flash of light.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Where the Blood Thickens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He flew backwards with the force of a tidal wave, the girl’s small fingers tight around his throat. A crushing weight hung over his chest, his shoulders, grinding him back into the dust. He stared up at glowing eyes and a bloodied mouth and felt the air draining from his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean—” he choked out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“help—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A sharp crack rang out, and the girl vanished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like that, the pain was gone. The leaden force against his chest had lifted; he could breathe again. Sam lay there, face-up, panting and staring at the night sky... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>...A sky void of stars. He frowned, opened his mouth, and before he could register what exactly was going on he had rolled to the side and was hacking out his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean skidded to a stop beside him, the rifle clutched in one hand. “Geez, Sam, can we put a lid on the near-death experiences for tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What”—Sam coughed and a wad of blood flew from his mouth—“what the hell”—Dean slapped him on the back to clear his throat—“was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ghost,” Dean said simply. He hauled Sam to his feet. “This place is Spook Central.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She… she tried to kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. They do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha—? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was the generic answer to that question, but for some reason, Dean didn’t think that was adequate. Not in this scenario. Not for Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever was going on, whatever was after them, it was after his brother first and foremost, and the generic answer just wouldn’t cut it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was about to reply when Sam sighed. “Let me guess. Unfinished business?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In simpler terms, yes,” Dean admitted. He looked Sam over. “You alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” he said, but in truth, he wasn’t. He was shaken… visibly so. The man standing here now wasn’t the one Dean had hunted a thousand and more monsters with, but one who had never seen a ghost in his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That he could remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rock salt. Scares the living hell out of ‘em.” Dean grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Look, keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual out here. Whoever brought us here, they had no intention of us ever leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam paled. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly what I said. Misty Bitch back there tried to strangle you for a reason. The freaks here mean business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She knew my name,” Sam said slowly. “She knew… who I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Dean didn’t sound too thrilled by this news. “Most things do, around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I knew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sam growled, anger sparking, “you know more than I do, so if you’d cut the enigmatic bull—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dean slung the rifle over his shoulder. “Huh? You have a plan for what comes next? There are </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span> out there, stalking us, hunting us in the dark, and it doesn’t matter what you know or what you think you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>something’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>coming and all you have is me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell me </span>
  </em>
  <span>what’s going on!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept walking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(This is what you wished for.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam caught up to him in two long strides, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. “Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(You took his memories!)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, Sam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I took his </span>
  </em>
  <span>pain.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sam tightened his grip. “Tell me what’s going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I erased only the parts of him you wished he never had.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(What am I supposed to do, make him relive his memories?)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(That choice is yours, Dean Winchester. Be careful what you wish for.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it’s my job to protect you, Sammy!” Dean exploded. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that demonic smile that followed him from a haunted dream into a waking nightmare, lay emblazoned at the forefront of his mind. He clenched his jaw tight and whirled on Sam. “And if by some twisted miracle you really don’t remember anything, I’m not going to take that away from you!” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(You wanted him to be happy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Now</span>
  <em>
    <span> he is happy.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you saying? That this memory wipe is some miracle I should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>grateful for?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is what you wanted, Sam! What both of us wanted.” Dean winced at his own words. “All you ever wanted was to be normal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At the risk of losing the truth?” Sam’s stare was cold. “That doesn’t sound like me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s lip twisted in a snarl. “And how would you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was on the ground almost before he could react, Sam’s fist landing again and again on his jaw. Dean grabbed his wrist and twisted. Flipped him over. Scrambled to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want the truth, dammit.” Sam spat blood. “And if I have to fight you to get it, then fine. So be it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean stared at him, frozen for a moment. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to fight you, Sammy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wrong answer, he knew. Sam leapt to his feet and grabbed Dean’s jacket collar, slamming him into the side of the Impala.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted you to be happy,” Dean whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When all was said and done, when it all boiled down to the bald, ugly truth, he was forced to face the music: he was tired. Too tired to care. Too tired to do anything but watch Sam beat the living hell out of him.</span>
  <em>
    <span> How does that Eagles song go?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought vaguely.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Too tired to make it, too tired to fight about it…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If this was how he was supposed to go, then fine. Let it be some kind of twisted poetic justice that the hunter become the hunted—and by the very thing he had sacrificed his all trying to save.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Life in the fast lane,” he murmured, and watched his brother come for him.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>A jagged scream lit up the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it wasn’t until Sam found himself gasping for air that he realized the sound had come from his own raw throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand was on fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down. There was nothing. No fire, no light, only heat and a burning agony tearing through the fragile skin of his fingertips. He unclenched his fist slowly to reveal red stripes on the palm of his hand. Second-degree burns at least, he figured. But he couldn’t take his hand away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the cup of his palm lay a small bronze amulet on a chain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looked up again, he found a boy staring back at him. A twelve-year old boy, with features almost identical to…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...to Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked and the boy was gone. In his place stood Dean as he knew him—for as much as you can say an acquaintance of three hours is really </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing</span>
  </em>
  <span> someone—twenty-eight years old and with that same hard look in his eyes, now undimmed by what childhood innocence had once existed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam,” Dean said, and Sam stumbled back as if burned, the amulet still burning hot in his palm. He released Dean’s jacket and stared, mouth open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christmas of ‘91,” he said finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean froze. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christmas of ‘91,” Sam repeated slowly. He forced himself to meet Dean’s gaze. “It was supposed to be a present for Dad. But he never showed up.” He dropped the amulet; it swung back and bumped against Dean’s chest. “So I... I gave it to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now it was Dean’s turn to gape. Hope bloomed bright in his chest. “You remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sam shook his head, and once again the leaden weight of certainty fell heavily down upon their shoulders. “But I… I </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Somehow, I saw it. Like I was a spectator in my own head…” He trailed off. Clenched and unclenched his fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burns were gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God, Sammy, you’re starting to freak me out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know where that voice had come from—besides his mind… that certainly wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> voice he was hearing—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had heard those words before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just couldn’t remember where. Or when. Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>why.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean frowned. “Like one of those weird yoga master out-of-body-experience things?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. Glad we solved </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> mystery,” Dean huffed, but something in his expression had eased; the lines of his brow were not quite so deep as they had been. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Relief,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sam thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That must be how he shows relief. Subtly, like he’s…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...like he’s hiding something.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean jerked the wrinkles out of his jacket and busied himself with checking on the Impala’s paint job. “So…” He coughed. “Now that we have our little heart-to-heart slash fight sesh out of the way…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean, wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh God what now.” He turned, once more wary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam shifted slightly from foot to foot. “So… it’s, it’s all true, then. Who you say I am. Your... brother. Sam.” He tasted the name on his tongue, and for the first time since he could remember, it felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” Dean took two steps forward and clapped Sam’s shoulder. “Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sam. You’re Sam fucking Winchester.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile was hard to resist. “That so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell yeah. That’s a badass name to be proud of, and you’d better believe it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam grinned. “I’m Sam fucking Winchester.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s grin matched his brother’s. “Damn straight you are.” And then he couldn’t help it; Dean reached out and wrapped his arms around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, miracle of miracles, he felt Sam hug him back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… you’re really my older brother?” he whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Dean bit his lip to keep from saying more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well… um.” Sam was looking for words; Dean could see that half-confused look of his even with his eyes closed. “Thank—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare go getting mushy on me,” he interrupted. He pulled away and slapped Sam on the back. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> shoot you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam blinked. “Somehow,” he began, a hint of his old mirthful spark in his eyes, “I actually think you would.”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The rundown on Cold Oak went much more quickly, after that. Now that Sam wasn’t trying to</span>
</p><ol>
<li><span>Run away at the first opportunity,</span></li>
<li><span>Throw punches, or</span></li>
<li><span>Kill Dean.</span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>“So… basically, the bastards are scared of salt. And iron. And silver?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Silver is for werewolves and tricksters. God, Sammy, pay attention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So if what’s-her-face comes back again—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Normally for ghosts, we’d have to find the remains and salt and burn the bones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam blinked. “Please tell me we’re not part of some cult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually.” Dean loaded his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. “We’ve hunted those, too.” They poked around through the remains of the town, Dean pointing out signs of supernatural activity along the way: flickering lights, cold spots, staticky television sets, random radio tunings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> is sulphur. Smells like—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rotten eggs,” Sam said. “Yeah. I know.” He bent, sweeping the yellowish powder towards him. “But why is it here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a sign of demonic presence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Well. That’s nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean smiled weakly. “Welcome back, Sammy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam ran his hand over the broken fence at the other end of the field. It was bent at odd angles, splintered as though by blunt force. “Welcome back to where,” he muttered absentmindedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To life,” Dean said. Sam looked up sharply. “To </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> life, I mean. It’s not exactly rainbows and roses, this job…” He had resorted to trailing off when Sam called out again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam squatted in the wreckage, pointing. “There’s mud everywhere, so it’s hard to tell, but... look here.” Dark smatterings of red spattered over the grass and the pavement and the remaining fence beams. “Is that... Good God, is that blood?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s look could only be described as infinitely bewildered; Sam turned back. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never heard you say ‘good God’ before,” Dean said lightly, but that air of wariness remained beneath the words. Then he shook his head and his expression cleared. “Does look like blood. This must be where—” He cut off suddenly, his eyes going dark as he stared at the ground and the bloodied blade half-buried in the mud.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Sam!)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam grabbed the knife and inspected its blade. Dean restrained a wince as Sam flipped the blade and caught it handle-first. “Where what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where we’re supposed to pick up,” Dean replied. He spun about, pointed. “Our man went that way. My guess, we’re supposed to hunt him down before he does the next God-awful thing on the agenda.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I”m pretty sure it’s got something to do with opening the gates of Hell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Sam scoffed. “Oh, well if it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>only that—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean rolled his eyes. “Coming or not, smartass?” He turned without another word, headed for the ragged road leading out of Cold Oak. A moment’s hesitation and then Sam was trotting after him, leaving behind the blade that had claimed his life only a few hours before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m coming, jerk.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Where the Dreams can Drown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I cannot believe I’m saddled with an asshole like you for a brother.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The first words spoken between them in more than four hours of riding without AC in the Impala, and was Dean surprised?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He plastered on his best shit-eating grin and turned up the radio. “Highway to Hell.” Naturally.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’d almost forgotten about that, hadn’t he?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Turn the stupid radio off, Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I must say, amnesiac you was much easier to deal with than the you that remembers about a quarter of your life.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All I remember is middle school, Dean. It’s literal hell.” <em>I doubt it,</em> Dean thought darkly. “Now turn off the damn radio.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He swivelled the dial toward MAX.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hate you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut your cake-hole. Driver picks the music. You have a problem, you can walk.” Sam grunted in response and crossed his arms, leaning back into his seat with that brooding look of his.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Some things never change, </em>Dean thought, and the wayward sons carried on their way.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sam slipped into the soft cushion of dreams, lulled into a false sense of security as Baby’s engine purred and the road outside his window blurred.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slept soundly for a time, undisturbed except for that constant heavy weight of <em>who am I?</em> floating at the back of his subconscious.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But even that faded when the dreams came, and they came in fury.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">~~~</span>
</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>He’s exhausted.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>After hours on the road with Dean and almost being torn apart by a bloodthirsty ghost, who wouldn’t be?</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>And then there’s the interview. In less than ten hours.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>With a sigh, he rakes a hand through his hair and tosses his keys by the front door. “Jess?” he calls. “You home?”</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>She doesn’t respond, but he can hear the shower running. He tries to hold back a smile and fails. God, he’s missed her. How long has it been, two days? Yet somehow it feels longer than that. His gaze falls on the clock by her nightstand: 11:02 PM.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Nine hours.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Even as Sam shuts his eyes as flops back onto the bed, a tiny voice whispers in the back of his mind:</em> Jess is going to kill you if you sleep in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>He smiles.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>He’s almost asleep—that blessed talent of his to fall asleep in moments that Jessica has always envied—when the smallest droplet hits just above his eyebrow. He ignores it, determined to get some sleep. Until there’s another. And another. He reaches up to wipe it away—it feels oddly thick and warm, like… blood? Sam blinks his eyes open and—</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Jess!” he screams, bolting upright. </em>“No!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">~~~</span>
</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“No!”</em> Sam shouted, and Dean jerked the wheel into a hard right, the tires squealing and digging rivets into the red dust beside the road. He stomped on the brakes just as Sam slumped forward. He just missed slamming his head on the dashboard as Dean’s hand caught him in the chest.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sam.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He had paled, his face a chalky gray.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he said numbly, his lips flapping like a dying fish, his eyes rolling, his knuckles white on the armrest. Then, terrifyingly, he went still.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sam!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dean went for his pulse first, the vein in his neck thrumming just enough: faintly, but at twice the normal speed. He slipped a hand behind Sam’s back next, feeling for the knife wound. There was nothing. Not even the raised streak of a scar.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He had to wonder how many times a man could die.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re fine, you’re okay, it’s not even that bad,” Dean muttered desperately. “It’s not that bad, Sammy, it’s just—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>~Careful, Dean. Last time you said that, he died in your arms.~</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up!” he screamed, but he didn’t have to turn around to know that the demon’s voice he had heard was only in his head.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>~You’re lucky I only gave you a year. The others have to listen to me everyday… every hour… every minute… for a decade.~</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hands shaking, Dean fumbled for his cellphone and flipped it open. He punched in the numbers, the faint electronic beeps oddly comforting in the empty, silent expanse of road before him and ghosts behind him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>~It’s merciful, really. And so is this amnesia thing. You poked a sleeping bear, Dean. You should have left well enough alone.~</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dean, you idjit!” The voice on the other end of the line was rough but relieved… in a cranky, drunk sort of way. “I’ve been tryin’ to reach you for hours—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>~Ignorance is bliss, Dean. But it’s a shame you don’t see it that way.~</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bobby?” he choked out. “I’ll be there in forty-five.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time the words had left Dean’s mouth, Sam had gone completely, utterly still. His chest raised only slightly, allowing the slightest bit of air to drag in and out of his lungs, and beneath the shaded lids his eyes twitched back and forth at a rather alarming pace; but otherwise, he didn’t move. His skin was pale, cold—</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>~Lifeless…?~</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut <em>up,”</em> Dean hissed, and somewhere in the back of his mind he could have sworn he heard a laugh. He punched the accelerator and made it to Bobby’s a full fifteen minutes before he should have.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He could just see a plaid-shirted, baseball-capped figure emerging from the old house at the far end of the lot, but Dean didn’t have time for anything in the way of a greeting. As soon as he applied the parking brake, the convulsions began. Sam bucked against the seatbelt, his back arching, his eyes rolling, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Dean leapt out and practically yanked the passenger door from the Impala. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Should I ask how many road violations you’ve—“ Bobby Singer’s voice cut short. He had stopped stock-still halfway between his front door and where Dean now stood, dragging an unconscious and kicking Sam from the Impala. “Dean. What is that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Could use a hand, Bobby,” Dean grunted. He draped Sam’s arm over his shoulder and took a sluggish step forward, but between Sam’s thrashing and Dean’s exhaustion, they got no more than half a foot forward before both collapsed into the dirt.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dean. What is—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“That</em> is my <em>brother</em>, Bobby.” He struggled to his feet and hauled Sam’s deadweight with him. “And he’s seizing, so if you could—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can see that, Dean, but how the hell is he even <em>breathing?”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look, are you going to fight me on this now or can we make sure he doesn’t die again while we’re making small talk?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The murderous look on Bobby’s face ensured there would be hell to pay, but Dean was too exhausted and terrified to care.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Besides, he already knew what lay in store for him. No point in avoiding it now.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They dragged Sam inside, that dark voice hissing behind his eyes about how <em>~he was lighter when he wasn’t alive~</em>, and dumped him onto the couch by the window. Sam thrashed, nearly slamming his head into the window, and Dean was almost forced to sit on him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bobby’s voice was low, tinged with a rough reverence. “The hell is going on here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t—I don’t know.” Dean clenched his jaw, unconsciously fiddling with the pendant around his neck. “Wait.” He tugged off the necklace and wrapped the cord around Sam’s hand until the pendant held in his fist. “This calmed him down last time—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Last time? How long’s he been like... well…“ Bobby nodded in Sam’s direction. His limbs had slowed to a mere shivering, only jolting now and then instead of writhing endlessly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Since last night.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The silence fell heavy and stifling.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Since last—? No.” Bobby shook his head, tore his gaze away from Sam’s now-still form. “No. I can’t have this conversation around—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look,” Dean began with a defensive growl, “whatever you have to say you can say in front of my brother.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Your <em>dead</em> brother.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Unconscious, Bobby.” Dean’s voice took on a dangerous undertone as Bobby stomped outside. He followed, somewhat hesitantly. “Unconscious but <em>not dead.</em> Not anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bobby whirled on him. <em>“Not anymore is the problem, Dean!</em> What’s dead should stay dead! And you of all people should know that!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bobby—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“What were you thinking?</em> Oh, that’s right, you <em>weren’t.”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He couldn’t help it; he raised his voice to overpower Bobby’s. “Are you going to keep beating me over the head about this or can we acknowledge that now that the deal is done, there’s nothing anyone can do about it!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The two exchanged glares, both too stubborn and too desperate and too damn proud to back down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally Bobby turned away. “Fine. So what do we do with him now?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean, <em>do with him?</em> He’s not a thing, Bobby. He’s a living <em>person</em>. We act just like we always have around him.” At Bobby’s narrow-eyed look, Dean threw his hands up in exasperation. “Bobby. It’s the same old Sam you’ve known since forever. It’s <em>Sam.”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You keep saying that.” A voice came from behind them, tired and familiar and welcome and at the same time horrifying in the wake of the deal that had been struck, and the two whirled to find Sam leaning against Bobby’s garage door, his brow furrowed and his face white. “I’m starting to believe you, Dean, but…” He shielded his eyes, squinting vaguely at Bobby. “—who are <em>you?”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You forgot to resurrect his manners,” Bobby grumbled under his breath. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dean ignored him, leaping forward. “Sam.” He clapped his brother on the back. “You’re awake. And… not convulsing.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t sound so disappointed.” Sam squinted at him. “What are you talking about, convulsing?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What the hell are <em>you</em> talkin’ ‘bout, boy?” Bobby chimed in. He was eyeing Sam’s disheveled appearance and wild eyes… and, from the way his eyebrows were raised, Dean knew he hadn’t missed the bloodstain on Sam’s shirt, either. “You gave us one hell of a scare and now you come in with a <em>who are you</em>?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But I… don’t know who—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dean jumped between them. “Sammy here just needs a little something to jog his memory. Right?” At Sam’s shrug, he gestured to the ever-welcomed wreck in plaid. “Bobby Singer. Best hunter we know. Practically raised us.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Said man in plaid did not find this amusing. “The <em>hell,</em> Dean—?!“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean, raised us?” Sam interjected. He glanced between the two, then finally blinked up into the late afternoon sunshine. Last he’d checked it had been just after noon, but now… And he couldn’t remember ever being in a place like this before. “What, our parents didn’t love us or something?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The other two just stared at him. Apparently he’d said something wrong—<em>remarkably</em> wrong, by their expressions—but he had no idea why.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We did <em>have</em> parents… right?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>~Ha. Debatable,~ </em>a voice hissed in the back of Dean’s mind. He calmed his expression, but not before Bobby caught his wince.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The hell did you do, Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s okay, Bobby, I swear, it’s just that—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just that <em>what?”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dean.” Sam shook his head almost helplessly. “I got nothin’.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right.” Dean clapped him on the back; Sam edged away warily. “He’s got nothin’. Look, it’s been a long night for all of us. So he’s a little fuzzy on the details. Not that big a deal. He’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So what you’re sayin’ is, you didn’t think it was important to tell me that his memory’s gone.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s not what—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bobby had never looked so tired of the Winchester boys’ shit as he did now. <em>“Is</em> it gone, Dean?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shifted uneasily. “Well, not completely, he was talking about when we were kids earlier—“</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sam winced.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“—but other than that… yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bobby studied him. “You sure?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dead sure,” Dean replied. Bobby ignored the joke… except for the dagger-like glare he threw in Dean’s direction.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.” Bobby heaved a sigh and turned his rough glare on Sam. “Let’s see, then. Starting with hunting. Tell me everything you know about sirens.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sam blinked. “Uh. Which kind, tornado or mermaid?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The look of sheer incredulity on Bobby’s face was enough to shake whatever confidence Dean had left. “He means the… uh. The mermaid type, Sam.” He shook his head with an expression that read, <em>I can’t believe I just said that out loud.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.” Sam shifted his weight, looking unsure. “Um. Well, according to lore they would sing songs that led sailors to their deaths… kind of baiting them with what they thought they wanted most, I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure.” Bobby nodded. “But how do you kill it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">An uncomfortable, pregnant silence passed. “You don’t,” Sam said finally. “They’re figments of imagination, stuff out of legends. You don’t kill them. Because they’re… they’re not—“ Dean was shaking his head grimly; Sam stopped short. “They’re… <em>real</em>, aren’t they.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dean nodded once.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Balls,” Bobby murmured, almost wonderingly, “he really does knows nothin’, don’t he?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Fraid so.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey.” Sam spread his hands. “I’m right here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, you are.” Bobby turned and trudged back to the house. “And ain’t that a wonder, too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dean cast a last hesitant glance at his brother before jogging after Bobby, leaving a bewildered Sam in his wake.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey! What’s <em>that</em> supposed to mean?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Believe me, Sammy,” Dean called over his shoulder, “you don’t want to know.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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